


French Toast

by slambam



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cooking, Language, Lazy Mornings, M/M, Trans Dick Simmons, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 10:06:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8009443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slambam/pseuds/slambam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grif doesn't do sleeping in so well, but sometimes it works out just fine. Really fine. <i>Extremely</i> fine. Featuring a sleepy (and some other things) Simmons, a sappy Grif, and all the fluff you can handle. </p><p>And some smut, for good measure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	French Toast

**Author's Note:**

> hi everyone! this is based in a modern au i have, but you don't need to know much beyond that to enjoy the fic. Grif's been a line cook for 10 years, Simmons is in IT, they've known each other a long time. oh, and Pringle is Grif's giant cat who's a real jerk.
> 
> shout out to [FreysGalli](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FreysGalli/pseuds/FreysGalli) and my friend Camille for being the best beta readers anyone could ask for! 
> 
> i hope you enjoy it!

The alarm wasn’t going off, although it may as well have been. He hadn’t been able to sleep past nine since he was maybe… seventeen? Eighteen? There had been a couple sleeping past noon days when he was part time as a bartender in Milwaukee. Not that he minded being up early, really. Especially not with a view like this.

Grif shifted under the blankets, sliding an arm under his pillow and watching Simmons with half-open eyes. Simmons’s brows stayed furrowed slightly, even in sleep – adorable. His hair was getting long, even for him. He had passed out before he had a chance to put it up for the night and it was now everywhere. Grif wouldn’t have it any other way. The memory of how it had been twined and taught around his fingers while Simmons panted hot against his neck lingered in his mind, and he could have sworn he still felt it.

Simmons turned his face in towards his pillow and hugged it tighter before settling with a sigh, and Grif couldn’t help but smile. He watched for a few more moments, then rolled over, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. As he retrieved his sweats from the end of the bed and tugged them on he absently went through what there was in the fridge – oh, fuck yeah. There was definitely enough to make something good.

Sweats in place and a plan coming together, Grif took a moment to bend down over the bed and press a kiss to the side of Simmons’s head. He made a small noise in his throat, curling tighter into himself: out like a light. He wouldn’t be among the living for another hour, at least. Grif smiled, then ambled towards the door, grabbing his phone off the nightstand and a hoodie off the door on the way.

They didn’t hear a lot of traffic from this high up in the apartment building, but the faint sounds of early morning traffic still made it to the kitchen. Grif didn’t mind. It was nice to have something as he worked. Not that it was really _work._

It was a simple enough thing to achieve. First things first, Pringle – like she’d _let_ him forget to feed her, weaving around his legs and crying until he pulled the familiar Tupperware from the fridge. With the beast sated, he moved on. Preheat the oven – the glass pan was clean. Use that. Cube that now stale as hell baguette Simmons had bought earlier that week, almond milk, flax to bind, cinnamon, vanilla, sugar – not too much. Simmons didn’t like it too sweet. Fuck, they had apples, too – those would work. He’d buy more if Simmons complained he’d used fresh ones. He hadn’t soaked the bread overnight, but he could let it have the time it took him to work out everything else. It’d be passable French toast, and the apples would be the game changer. Fucking genius.

It didn’t take long for the kitchen to start smelling amazing, and he had the dishes done before the coffee had finished brewing. Judging by the silence, Pringle had retreated to the bedroom for her post-breakfast sleep. Leaning on the counter, Grif pulled his phone from his pocket, tapping into Instagram. Kai was still awake, probably. Her last post was from fifteen minutes before of a mess of empty liquor bottles in someone’s kitchen, captioned with three rows of thumbs up emojis. Nothing different there, then. He’d call later to see how sick she was.

He heard rustling from the bedroom and glanced up, setting his phone down on the counter. Simmons ambled into the kitchen in briefs and a t-shirt, eyes barely open as he clutched their comforter around his shoulders.

“Well, look who’s up.”

Simmons made a not ungrumpy noise in his throat, shuffling across the linoleum to press a kiss to Grif’s forehead that was more like a bump that happened to involve his lips.

“Smells good,” he mumbled in a sleep-thick voice, reaching over Grif’s head to fumble open the mug cabinet one-handed. “G’morning.”

“Mm. Sounds like it.”

Simmons shot him a look and he snorted, wrapping his arms around Simmons’s waist under the blanket.

“Jesus, Simmons. I don’t know how you get out of bed and you’re, like, immediately cold.”

Simmons muttered something incoherent, slumping against Grif and stooping to awkwardly bury his face in Grif’s shoulder.

“Didn’t quite catch that, Simmons. Use your words.”

“Fuck you.” Simmons murmured, too tired to put any real venom behind it as he straightened. “Lemme go.”

Grif released him with a laugh, folding his arms across his chest as Simmons trudged to the coffeemaker.

“What are you making?”

“French toast.” Grif replied, watching Simmons pour his coffee and take a gulp before refilling the mug, and added, proudly: “With apples.”

Simmons half-moaned in his throat, brows furrowing upward as he took another drink. “Christ, Dexter. You’re…”

“Amazing? The best thing to ever happen to you?”

“Inhuman.”

Grif laughed.

“How long’s it got?”

“Half an hour, give or take.” Grif glanced at the microwave clock.

“Mm,” Simmons repeated, this time in the affirmative. “Come sit down, you… you lunatic.”

Grif laughed, following him out to the living room. Simmons stood by the couch expectantly until Grif sat, then slumped next to him, stretching his legs over Grif’s lap and curling to rest his head on Grif’s chest.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with you.” Simmons murmured, sounding slightly more coherent. “You’ve got one day off and you… you get up to make me French toast.”

“Who says it’s for you, Simmons? You know what they say about assumptions.” Grif could almost hear Simmons roll his eyes and laughed. “We had the stuff. You like it.”

“I _know_ I like it.” Simmons replied in a small voice, tilting his face up to kiss Grif’s neck lazily. “Doesn’t mean you have to get up to make it.”

“Seems like a good enough reason to me. You’re welcome, by the way.” Grif smiled, then shifted, swallowing, as the languid kisses didn’t stop. “Oh.”

Simmons paused to set his mug aside, then set one hand on Grif’s chest, kneading his pec as he slid the other arm behind Grif’s shoulders.

“I. Wow. French toast get you hot and bothered, Simmons?” Grif’s voice cracked as Simmons bit at the shell of his ear, sliding one hand across his chest under the unzipped hoodie.

“What’s it to you?” Simmons rested his lips on Grif’s cheek and Grif turned his head, catching Simmons’s mouth in a slow kiss. He retuned it with a satisfied sigh and Grif moved a hand to his thigh, then his waist, drawing him closer.

Simmons shifted one of his legs, and his thigh pressed directly against Grif’s dick. He couldn’t stop his hips from jerking forward, cursing softly. Simmons just smiled against his mouth, green eyes flickering open.

Simmons hooked an arm around Grif’s neck, pulling him down as he laid back on the couch. There was a moment of coordinating as Grif shifted forward to allow Simmons to hook a leg around his other hip, and then Simmons had both arms around his neck, pulling him down and rolling his hips lazily into Grif’s lap.

“Good on time?” Simmons mumbled against Grif’s mouth, then broke contact, biting his lips together to stifle a low moan and letting his head fall back against the couch.

“Probably.” Grif took advantage of the opportunity and turned his attention to Simmons’s neck, kissing over last night’s bruises. Simmons ran his hands up Grif’s chest to the sides of his neck and up into his hair, nails running over his scalp before gripping loosely. It was warm and close, the occasional sound of traffic the only indication that anything existed besides this. Grif grunted quietly, leaning up and reaching back to grab one of Simmons’s legs under the knee, pulling it further up on his hip.  Simmons hummed, digging his heel into Grif’s ass and took one hand back to run through his own hair, training his eyes on Grif’s.

“Hey,” he said with a lazy smile, breath hitching, and Grif could have melted. It felt good – fuck that, it felt _great,_ doing this, but seeing Simmons this relaxed was fucking putting the life back in him.

“Hi.” Grif replied, leaning down to press a kiss to Simmons’s mouth, driving his hips just a touch harder against Simmons’s and earning himself another smile and a low moan.

“Fuck me.” The words almost came on a sigh as Simmons dug his fingertips into the back of Grif’s neck, breathing the words against his mouth.

Grif let out a shaky breath, cock twitching in his sweats. Simmons had no right, being this hot this early. Completely unfair. He sat up, reaching down to peel off Simmons’s briefs and toss them aside, and managed to get his sweatpants down to his thighs with Simmons’s help. Not off, but close enough. Simmons pulled him back down flush almost before he could get a hand between them.

"You don't need - "

"I'm good. Just... just - oh, _yeah_." Simmons's voice turned up at the end, stretching into a moan as Grif pushed inside. There was that little resistance, a moment of held breath and tense silence – and then he was inside with a shudder and a soft, broken groan that Simmons returned. Watching Grif’s face with half-open eyes, he wrapped his legs tight around Grif’s hips, lacing his arms around his neck, and rolled his hips forward.

Grif took the hint and set off  - but slowly, leaning down to kiss Simmons at the same lazy pace. Simmons didn’t seem to mind, matching him sometimes, pausing at others with his eyes closed and brows furrowed, like he was trying to focus everything at once. Grif loved it, and he loved adding to it, and in this instance, it looked like he’d done pretty well.

“Oh, right there.” Simmons arched off the couch to press himself closer, biting his lip. “Fuck, right there…”

“Like – like that?” Grif shifted again, reaching back to grip Simmons’s thigh. "You like that?" 

“Oh – oh, Dex,” Simmons nearly purred, voice catching as Grif moved faster, driving against him, and shifted his hands to Grif’s shoulders. “Oh, fuck, _Dexter_ – ”

If, for some awful reason, Grif never had sex again, he was almost positive the way Simmons said his name in that moment would be enough to get him off for the rest of his life.

By contrast, the way that the oven timer suddenly went off was decidedly unsexy, and Grif was almost positive it would _never_ get him off.

Unbelievable. Betrayed by his own French toast.

Grif froze, locking eyes with Simmons.

They had two options here, but as he stared into Simmons’s flushed face, Grif realized there was really no choice at all. After their moment of wordless communication Simmons nodded, swallowing hard and Grif shifted, bracing one hand on the arm of the couch, and thrust as hard and fast as he could. Simmons looked as though he might have forgotten to breathe, hands fluttering from Grif’s shoulders to Grif’s chest to his own mouth before he wrapped them back around Grif’s neck with a bitten-back groan, pulling Grif down against him.

“Fuck – fuck – fuck – fuck, Dex! _Dex_!” Simmons hissed against his neck, breath coming in short, punctuated bursts. “Shit, don’t stop, don’t stop!”

Oh, Grif wasn’t about to. Simmons was close, Grif knew – it was in the throatiness of his voice, the stutter in his hips, the way he strained, pushing himself back into the couch. Grif shifted, took one of Simmons’s hands, and thrust hard, groaning.

Simmons’s breath caught, his eyes squeezing shut, and Grif knew they were there. He kept moving fast and shallow, breathing raggedly as Simmons cried his name, gripping his hand and his shoulder like they were the last solid things in the universe. Grif went still as Simmons’s cry trailed into a sobbing breath, his orgasm finally subsiding, and it was all Grif could do to keep it together.

Simmons lifted shaking hands and cupped his cheeks, drawing him down for more frantic, clumsy kisses that Grif was more than happy to return. Carefully, he pulled out, sitting up on his knees and lowering a hand to stroke himself.

“You’re so good,” Simmons murmured, catching on quickly, and ran his fingers up into Grif’s hair, tugging. “Dexter, you’re _so_ good, I love it, I love how you feel – so _fucking_ good, every time – ”

That was all he needed, and Grif choked on an exhale, groaning and spilling across Simmons’s stomach as Simmons pressed kisses to his jaw, fingers wound tight in his hair. Grif drooped, panting and pressing his forehead to Simmons’s shoulder.

“Oven,” said Simmons, as though he’d never heard the word before. “Oh. Oh, shit, Grif – ”

Grif opened his eyes, brow furrowing as he put two and two together.

“Fuck.” He lifted his head, pressing a quick kiss to Simmons’s mouth before shoving himself upwards and nearly toppling over for his efforts.

He half-slid into the kitchen, nearly wiping out on the linoleum. Grab the pan - no, clean off his hand first, quick in the sink – potholders, THEN the pan – set it on the stove, turn off the oven – fuck, it smelled great and didn’t _look_ burnt, but first things first – back to Simmons.

He paused on his way, digging in one of the kitchen drawers and retrieving one of their spare dish towels. Paper anything never seemed right for this kind of thing, as much as Simmons argued that they made the most sense.

“Is it okay?” Simmons asked as Grif rounded the couch, still flat on his back.

“S’fine,” Grif replied, sitting heavily and watching Simmons’s face. “Are you… you good?”

Simmons nodded, then glanced at the towel in Grif’s hand with a pained expression. “Dexter - oh, no, Dexter, that’s a nice one.”

He was rarely Dexter. Only with Simmons. Only like this, and even as Simmons complained, he wouldn't trade it for anything.

“Well, you’re a nice guy. I _guess_.” Grif said firmly, leaning down to kiss him as he swiped the mess of Simmons’s abdomen, pulling back to check his work. “I’ll wash it, it’s fine. Bleach and all if you want.”

Simmons didn’t protest, seemingly satisfied with the promise, and set a thin hand on Grif’s free wrist. Shifting, Grif balled up the towel and set it aside before flopping down next to Simmons, stretching an arm across Simmons’s torso as he rolled onto his side.

“You better pick that up later.” Simmons muttered, shooting him a look, then sighed. “I… is it… can we just. I don’t want to get up yet.”

“Sounds fine to me, except I’m about to fall off, dude. Move over.”

Simmons sighed again, although this time it was more like a scoff. “I can’t. There’s no more _over_ to move.”

“Then just – whatever.” Grif hooked his arm all the way around Simmons, rolling onto his back and pulling Simmons mostly on top. “There. See?”

Simmons huffed, wriggling to settle into the space created between Grif’s side an the back of the couch, stretching his long legs out across Grif’s. “It’ll work.”

“Mm. You should really give me more credit, you know.”

He could see Simmons roll his eyes out of the corner of his, and he smiled, then faltered as Simmons pressed a kiss to the top of his arm.

“Thanks,” He said, quietly, sleep already creeping back into his voice.

“Don’t mention it,” Grif responded, and Simmons smiled against his chest.

“Love you.”

“Yeah, I know. Love you too.”

 


End file.
